


Three To One

by thescouticus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Because Kankri doesn't really know how to say yes, Bulges and Nooks, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fingering, Initial Dubcon-ish, Masturbation, Mommy Kink, Red Romance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescouticus/pseuds/thescouticus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kankri finds himself presenting an open challenge to way more woman than he can handle.</p>
<p>Otherwise known as three times Kankri kept his Vow of Chastity, and one time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three To One

**Author's Note:**

> Labeled dubcon mostly because Kankri has been saying no to sex for so long that he doesn't really know how to say yes to sex in the first place.

Three Times Kankri Kept His Vow And One Time He Didn't

The First Time, he had crossed a line, baited her. He could admit that now. Just one little too-harsh jab at the way she smothered him, combined with a roll off his eyes and a 'What are you going to do? Spank me?' had sent her tipping over the edge. She ordered him to 'shut the fuck up' in a tone that did not leave any room for argument, and made whatever he was about to say die in his throat.

Jade-faced and glowing, she dragged him by the ear to her bedroom, bent him over her knee, and yanked his pants down, leaving him too stunned to even protest. “If you are going to behave like a child, Kankri,” she told him firmly, “I am going to treat you like one. Count out loud.”

She lands the first blow mid-'count what?' and he lets out an embarrassing squeak, his body bucking under her hand. He manages to get out a weak 'one' only once she reminds him, promising the next one will be harder if he doesn't. 

It wasn't actually all that hard a blow, to be honest, mostly it was just the shock value and the loud noise of the hand hitting the fleshiest parts of his rear end that had him bucking and jumping. He shakes as she gives him fourteen more, his eyes watering as his body relaxes, getting used to the sensation. Fifteen in all. His rear end is hot and stinging by the end of it. He apologizes for making fun of her.

She apologizes for having to do it as she kneads some kind of salve into his newly-tingling behind, her hand soft and cool on what he never knew could be such sensitive tissue. He starts to cry as he recovers, twinges making their way through his body. She holds him close, and tells him he's a good boy, and that he did a good job, he took his punishment very well. He quietly sobs, stopping as soon as he could, absconding as soon as he'd stopped sniffing.

The second time he unsheathed as she spanked him and ran from her like a coward. He was avoiding her. He wouldn't even deny it. Ever since she put him over her knee, he'd been avoiding her, making excuses not to have to spend time with her.

She wasn't incredibly pleased at that, but there was fairly little that she could do. If he chose to avoid her, he was going to avoid her. She confronted him about it eventually, after three weeks of barely a nod when they passed each other from the talkative troll.

He can't help it, he gets mouthy. Confrontational. Bratty.

She gets offended, tells him again, to shut the fuck up.

He says “Make me.”

She drags him to her room by the back of the neck. He puts up a rudimentary struggle. He fails. She successfully drags him to her bed, bending him over the side. Her bed is plenty tall, he has to keep his legs straight to touch the floor. She yanks his pants down again. Pins him with an hand between his shoulder blades, and wails on his rear end.

He tears up quickly, her blows sharper this time, coming with less time between each other.

His body bucks as he gets used to it, and he adjusts, albeit against his will. It's still stinging, but it's less unpleasant then before. He can tolerate it. Suddenly, he feels a great pressure released from his abdomen. It's not until he hears her sympathetic tones, that tone she only seems to use here, that he realizes that that great release of pressure was his bulge being released from its sheathe.

For the first time, he can bring himself to break away from her grip, tearing away to hole himself up in the bathroom. Porrim worriedly talks at him through the door the entire time, until she realizes it's not actually locked. Eventually, it retracts. She holds him tight and apologizes again, planting little kisses on his head and stroking his hair and telling him “It's okay, baby. Shhhh, Everything's going to be okay. Momma's here.” until he can stop drooling and shaking.

The Third Time, he did break it, on a technicality. There is no technical rule against his masturbation, as long as the slurry produced is not delivered to the Mother Grub, however, masturbating in front of someone else, let alone under their encouragement, is much more of a gray area.

Kankri Vantas does not like gray areas. He likes childish black and white.

Which is why is tears him up inside when Porrim spanks him next, and takes his hand, to move his fingers back, encourages him to slip them inside of himself and bring pleasure.

He cannot even remember how this one got started. Another petty argument, no doubt, he remembers her going -“It's almost like you want me to punish you!” and himself shouting back- “Maybe I do!” but all the same, Kankri ends up turned over Porrim's knee, trying to keep himself from drooling onto the sheets as he's kneeling face-down, ass-up and she strokes his rear end, soothing the very place she's about to put through a round of pain.

“You are going to count, and you are going to thank Momma for each one.” She states. There is no room for argument in her tone. He finds he doesn't really want to. That little release last time, that tiny little blend of pain and pleasure, was horribly addictive. He squirmed in place, making his rear end wriggle in the air, and lowered his eyes.

“Yes... Momma.” his voice is breathy in anticipation even in his own ears. She chuckles and her hand disappears from kneading the flesh of his rear.

It's replaced quickly, with the sting of the first slap. She's not going hard yet. Just enough to get a little fuzzy, warm sensation going when she pulls her hand away. He wheezes out, “One, thank you, Momma.” and she gently runs her fingers through his hair, and mumbles some word of praise then raises her hand again. Brings it back down. He thanks her, counts out 'two.

On the tenth, he unsheathes, panting.

By the twentieth, he is squirming under her hand, nook slick, bulge curling around itself in desperation.

She croons and asks if Momma needs to take care of her baby now as she strokes the bright red marks on his cheeks. He mutters something vague about his vow. She makes a noise of understanding, a gentle, motherly croon, and guides his fingers- his own fingers- to his nook.

He slips them inside of himself, under her instruction, encouragement- “Baby, can you take another finger for Momma?”- until he's climaxing while she praises him, gently, softly.

It's world-shattering for him. He's never had an orgasm before. He gasps and bucks, his toes curling, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his body shivers, bends, humping nothing while his hands move spasmodically. He releases years and years of pent-up frustrations at that moment, every denial of lust, his feelings, that he indeed had a sex drive, all in one blazing moment of pure pleasure, whiting out his vision, he's pretty sure that he's passed out, for a moment. He's dead again. There's no way something can feel this good.

He comes back from the brink eventually. His eyes are open wide, face tearstained, he's fallen limp against the bed, panting hard, because holy fucking shit. He can barely move his muscles as Porrim gathers him up against herself, stroking his face and hair.

“There we go, that's my good boy...”

Her voice is so tender, so gentle. 'Motherly' is the right word, here. Momma's good boy, he thinks absently. He sniffles, clings, ends up clinging to her again, grounding himself on the sensation of her flesh against his face, snuffling into her neck. He hears her crooning softly, and clings to what she's saying, with the little bit of his mind that hasn't been torn into a billion pieces from the power of his- That. That was an orgasm, wasn't it?

That little realization breaks him. He breaks into tears, ugly, wracking sobs and snot bubbling from his nose while drool drips down his chin. “Mama's here...” she comforts him, “You can cry as long as you need to, dear. You did very well.” In that moment, that little bit of praise is worth more than the entire world. He sobs until it stops, he's been doing a lot of crying these days, hasn't he?

When he's a little more coherent, he still doesn't feel like himself. He puts himself over her knee again, of his own free will, but this time she pets his hair- he's purring like a wasp's nest and he's not even sorry about it- and rubs some kind of soothing lotion into his red-hot skin, and she wipes him up with all of the patience in the world, because he's still covered in his own genematerial. She smiles at him and pets him head and asks if he's alright. She gives a surprised when he actually manages to answer a question, addressing himself as 'Mama's baby' without a second thought.

She wraps him in a big, fluffy robe before she dares leave him for a moment, and he stares absently after her. She's only gone for a few minutes, but it feels like a short eternity for him, like he's a toy not in use.

When she comes back, she presses a bottle to his lips, helps him manage to get some water down, and its icy coldness helps clear his head a little. It's not until she holds him close and says for him to come back to her that he really registers that he's just about wandered away from his mind. He pulls himself back consciously. She calls it “sub-space” and says it's lucky that he can go there without trying. He absently nods. Sure, sure. He not really paying her words any attention. Mostly, he's just looking at her.

She kisses him on the forehead and strips him of his robe again, and strips herself of her dress, her bra, her panties, saying, “Don't worry, baby boy.”

She tucks them both underneath the plush, plush blankets of her human-style sleeping platform, and simply holds him close, the feeling warm and soft, and wonderfully intimate, nice enough to make him shiver. There really was absolutely nothing that could replace that feeling of skin of skin. Maybe that's why people in movies always did it naked.

She pets his head and pulls him a little closer, her breasts comfortingly soft and squishy. He tucks himself in underneath her chin, hopefully not poking her with his horns much, head resting against her decollete. She runs her fingers through his hair, whispering little praises, that he did well, that he was perfect, that he could come back to her now. The texture of her skin on his, the steadily moving pressure of her hand in his hair, the squishiness of her breast under his fingers, on the one hand not around her back, that he didn't quite realize was there until he moved it, since it's been tucked up against his chest.

It all helps pull him back, until he no longer feels like he's simultaneously in his body and six inches behind, and it merely resting contentedly inside of his body, drowsy and contented in a way he's never truly felt before. He falls into a deep sleep, and she makes them breakfast in the morning, sweet swirled pastries with glazed icing across the top, baked to a golden-brown. He eats two without protest, and says that he must be off.

She smiles at him, hair still messy, and tells him to return any time he would like. That last night didn't have to mean anything if he didn't want it to, but if he did want it to, he could simple say the word.

That word.

Momma.

The next time, he asks for. Not entirely certain how to approach the subject, or even the situation, he pads up to her nervously as she sits on her couch, reading, and gathers up all he knows from extremely scattered pornographic materials, movies, books, listening to what his neighbors said on Beforus, and kneels at her feet, resting his chin on her knee.

When this only gains him a questioning eyebrow raise, he lowers his eyes on instinct, and mumbles, “Uhm... Momma?” he's almost about to lose his nerve when she smiles at him softly, looking some blend of relieved and content.

“Yes, Kanny?” she lowers the book to her lap, and looks at him, lowering her hand and running her fingers through his hair, her gaze gentle and affectionate, with just the barest hint of... Not quite lust, but something similar. Desire, perhaps? Passion?

He doesn't know how to do desirous and passionate, so he's going to try going for innocent and needy. He looks at her with upturned eyes, giving her his best innocent, baby barkbeast look, then lowered them again. Hoping she'll take his nervous hesitance for something else, and stutters out a few indistinct sounds.

“What is it, Kanny? Use your mouth-words, or Momma won't know what you need.” she prods, still delicately running her manicured claws through his hair. She always did love his 'needy side', that little side of him that came out whenever he needed care from another and could no longer deny it, like when he was very sleepy, or sick to the point of delusion.

Or when he'd just been spanked.

The words “Kanny's been naughty...” just sort of spill out of his mouth before his can really think about them, and her eyebrows practically disappear into her hairline, then a smirk slowly comes over her face.

“Has he now?” she asks, and he nods. “Come here, Kanny.” she pats the couch right next to her. “Come up here next to Momma then, sweetheart. Naughty boys get disciplined, and it sound like mine deserves a good spanking.”

The phrase 'naughty boy' send tingles up his spine, and the word 'spanking' has a similar effect on his nook. He climbs up onto the couch, waiting for her cues. She smiles placidly, pulling her hand up so that he can move into position across her knees. “Good boy.”

He feels his eyes go wide, vision suddenly sharpening as those two little words send a tingle through both his nook and his chest. Then again, he's never heard them before when he's not post-scene and too exhausted to think, simply clinging to her and usually crying. He almost stumbles on his way to lay across her lap, but catches himself. She smiles again, and tugs his pants down, his sweater up, making sure he's completely bare.

This time, he knows what to anticipate, the sting of her first hit, after a bit of teasing rubbing of each ass cheek. It's not hard, just enough to sting a bit, in all honesty, he doesn't even make a noise. She applies one to each cheek, and builds up, little by little.

It's tinted with edges of her experience, it's never hard enough to cause the burning of the second time, where she pulled away from the first blow and could have fried an egg on his rear. This is a pleasant build-up, increasing his tolerance with every hit, the sting not too much, nor too little. 

He's wet by the tenth, his nook moistening with transparently red fluids, unbeknowst to him, glistening as it gathers, starting to gather around his sheathe and drip onto his pelvis.

At swat twenty, he feels some of the pressure in his abdomen release, and he knows he's come unsheathed. It's less completely and utterly alarming and scary this time. He's able to override his panic and react only minimally. She croons at him softly, and tenderly caresses his behind. It's warmer than normal, her hand comfortingly cool against his skin. Her hand softly brushes over the lips of his nook, swollen and sticky with his fluids, and it clenches in anticipation.

“Oh my, Kanny...” she leans over towards his head, a smile on her lips, “Have you been enjoying your punishment?” when he whines pathetically, too aroused to form coherent words, she adds, nudging his knees apart, “How naughty, baby boy... Perhaps Momma should spank you where you seem so keen to enjoy it...”

He parts his legs for her, nook clenching hard in preparation for the pain that would certainly accompany getting hit there. She hits the spot between his sit-spots and his thigh, the sensitive area on his inner thighs, and the on the creases where his pelvis meets his torso. He shakes, the sharp sensation on such sensitive skin surprisingly arousing, arching his back to press his hips out, presenting himself for her. His bulge tangles with itself eagerly.

Finally, she has to be getting to it. And get to it, she does. She gives his nook a swat, right over his lips, more sting than blunt force.

He digs his fingers into the couch cushions, resisting the sudden urge to spill his genefluid.

“Feel good, Kanny?” she teases, and he can hear the smirk in her voice as she repeats the action to the sound of his gasping for breath. “Hmm?”

“God, yes...” he breathes out, trying to get a hold of himself, at some point having fallen onto the couch, his upper body pressed against it, thrusting his rear into the air as high as possible. That should not feel that good. That felt that good. Why did that feel so good? She gave him another swat, then ran her fingers along his slit.

“You know, Kanny...” she states, almost more to herself than him, “You're dripping wet from this. Your color is dripping down your thighs. It's practically to your knees.” she leans in, whispering into his ear as she tugs a bit at his nooklips, “Little slut.”

He whines, just about spilling, and whimpers to her, desperate and soft, “Please, Momma...”

She smiles like she's won and slips two fingers into his nook.

He lets out another shivery, pathetic little noise, head falling down onto the couch cushions. She fingers him gently, curling her fingers into the sensitive front wall of his nook, nudging the root of his bulge through the membrane separating the two, and feels a lurch in his chest.

“Come for me, darling...” she encourages, and he's gone, and he's coming with a sob and his eyes are welling up with water from being so overwhelmed, and if he hadn't already been on his knees with his face in the pillows, be would be now, out of control of the motions of his body, hips twitching, eyes rolling back, toes curling, some truly alarming noises making their way from his mouth.

He feels the shockwaves as he comes down, and takes a deep breath, pushing himself, and then the waterworks are on. They're flowing and She's there.

His Momma is there and She's helping him turn himself over, and cradling him against Her chest, running Her claws through his hair, making soothing little noises at him, little shooshes and croons. He nuzzles against Her neck and clings and cries himself out until he's out of tears and out of sobs.

She pulls away a bit, trying to look at him, and he hides himself partway in Her chest, looking up at Her through stinging, red-rimmed eyes, and he feels... Different.

She looks down at him. Calm and collected, but curious, “Are you alright, baby boy?”

He squeezes Her tight and nods, trying to get words out past his tongue. “M'okay, Momma.”

“You did a few good job today, sweetheart. I'm very proud of you.” She strokes his hair softly. He bites his lip, trying to restrain the unbidden spurt of laughter that's just bubbled up in his chest.

She smiles and tilts Her head and asks what's wrong, and he presses his face to Her breasts and giggles breathlessly, interspersed with hiccups and gasps, because he can't remember the last time he actually laughed. She smiles and lowers Her hand to tickles his neck, and it sends him into hysterics.

She asks him if, based on this reaction, he wants to continue this little arrangement of theirs.

He takes a deep breath to get a hold of himself.

And says yes.


End file.
